


we're gonna be fine

by milesofregrets



Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Hollowgasts, Nightmares, Post-Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i dont think this is a ship but if you see it as such i will end you, idk i wrote this in one day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesofregrets/pseuds/milesofregrets
Summary: jacob and horace have nightmares and run into each other in the middle of the night. thats it thats the fic. i just think the kids would imprint on him like ducklings
Relationships: Jacob Portman & Horace Somnusson
Kudos: 14





	we're gonna be fine

**Author's Note:**

> like the tags say, i wrote this in a day. its not good. hopefully you can enjoy it though

Jacob snatches a pillow from the rapidly vanishing pile and tosses it to Emma, who thanks him with a nod. The kids had swarmed his family's stash of spare blankets like locusts, and for the past half hour he'd been trying desperately to get them somewhat organized around the house. It was past 11 and the younger ones were too exhausted to keep their eyes open much longer, so he'd tried his best to create some sort of system to house the flock.   
First he'd offered up the largest bedroom, which belonged to his parents. Bronwyn had quickly muscled her way into taking that one for Olive and Claire, much too small to wrestle the others for their own space. After that had come the guest bedroom, reluctantly handed to Hugh and Millard, because nobody else was willing to share with either of them. Emma, Fiona, and Bronwyn took the family's sleeping bags for themselves, leaving only Jacob's room up for grabs between Enoch and Horace, a split that was decided by a coin flip which Jacob may or may not have lied about the result of. Sue him. In his defense, he wanted whoever took the room to actually sleep in it, not go through all his drawers and re-animate his old stuffed animals until 4 in the morning with a messy suitcase of rotting dog hearts.  
So that left Enoch angry and on the couch, and Jacob on the floor with a pile of blankets and pillows. It wasn't ideal, but he was used to it, and way too tired to have trouble falling asleep.  
"'Night, girls." Bronwyn says sleepily from the stairs, ushering off Olive and Claire to their room, trying to separate them from tussling with each other.   
One last bee zips past Jacob's face seconds before a door slams upstairs, cueing him in that Hugh and Millard are in place, and a heavy sigh from down the hall indicates Enoch's reluctant settling.   
"Goodnight, Jacob." Horace waves as he wanders by, adorned in matching stripey pajamas and squinting to see in the dark, hands outstretched to find furniture.  
That kid definitely needs some real glasses, Jacob thinks as he nods back.  
"Night."   
The blackout curtains are drawn closed at some point, blocking even the faint glow of street lamps and the shadows of the gently waving palm trees. The total darkness begins pulling down at Jacob's eyelids, lulling him to sleep as he tries to find a comfortable position in his tangle of blankets.  
Emma's the first to start snoring, passing out the second her head hits her pillow, and soon the entire house is filled with the sounds of slow breathing. It's a soothing white noise to Jacob, who is used to it's deathly silence and creepy shadows. Even curled into a far corner of his living room with freezing feet poking out from his makeshift bed, he has to admit that the house feels more comfortable and more alive than it has in years. Soon enough, he too is fast asleep, drifting off into a calm and quiet darkness.

However, when he opens his eyes again, that contentment vanishes in a sudden chill. He finds himself somehow standing in the middle of a vaguely familiar road, curling fog reaching around his body and ever creeping towards him from the misty darkness of a swamp landscape. On all sides of him, old and decaying homes barely stand, reminiscent of the ramshackle neighborhoods of Devil's Acre in their half-finished, crumbling facades. They sway in the faint wind, creaking wood and scraping metal adding to the terrifying ambience of the situation.  
The cracking road only leads one direction- a massive, torn chain-link fence that had long since been coated with rust, blocking off the settled area from a wild swampy forest. Trees stretch tall into the sky until they're barely visible, with branches that spiderweb out into thin stalks draped with soaking moss. It's impossible to see through the thicket. However, as he's looking, Jacob notices with sickening dread a flaky trail of blood droplets lining the road towards the fence.  
His hands feel far too empty and defenseless with nothing to swing, but he somehow still begins to stumble forward, almost as though he can't control his own legs. The looming woods draw closer and closer until their shadows cover his face and he's inches away from the rusted metal, which seems to be shorter now that he's up close. He pauses for a moment, unwilling to enter the undergrowth, but suddenly the air is pierced by a shrill, terrified scream from within the trees that Jacob recognizes in an instant.  
"Emma!" he cries.  
His voice feels thick in his throat, and the words don't quite come out right. Nonetheless, he tears through the rusted chain links and shoves his way through the moss and thick tree roots, feet splashing through mud and swamp water. It seems like the forest is going on forever, but it's also growing more and more familiar the further he goes, the only indication that he isn't going in circles.  
"Jacob!" another voice shouts, but it isn't Emma this time, and he recognizes it as Hugh.  
He tries to tear down moss and thick bushes, but the undergrowth is just too thick and he trips over a fallen vine, collapsing into the mud.  
"I'm coming!" he tries to yell back, even though his throat is thick and gravelly and the words are garbled, barely even understandable.  
The mud sucks at his legs and pulls him in deeper, cold and far too thick to fight against. The forest is growing louder and louder with faint screaming and the screeches of frightened birds, surrounding him, and his nails tear and hands slip as he tries fruitlessly to grab onto something, anything.  
Suddenly, crashing behind him alerts him to the presence of something else, and he whips his head around just in time to stare into the cold eyes of none other than his dead grandfather, wielding a can opener over his head in the start of a downward swing.  
"Wait!" he screams, but it sounds so wrong and he realizes in a moment what it is.  
Hollowspeak.  
"Fucking monster." Abe growls, and Jacob tries so desperately to kick out from the swamp but it holds him in place and he only falls deeper.  
He stares up in frozen terror as the glinting metal fills his vision, unable to protect himself, squeezing his eyes shut at the last second-  
And he leaps awake, suddenly tangled in thin blankets and shrouded in darkness, a scream dying in his hoarse throat.  
 _Dreaming. I was dreaming._ he thinks desperately, shaking hands twisted in the cotton. His breath, erratic and fast, catches in his throat, and all of the sudden the dark house feels huge and suffocating, bad enough that he has to stumble up on weak legs to avoid a sinking feeling.  
The sleeping figures around him do not stir, and he stares at Emma for a moment, watching her hair flutter in her breath as a gentle reassurance that she's alive, ok. She's leaned against Bronwyn, a soft, relaxed expression on her face, and he tries to ground himself in the peace. No more wights trying to tear them apart, and she's happy. They're all happy, and they're all ok.  
He takes an attempt at a deep breath, although it doesn't quite work, and keeps moving, careful not to creak the floorboards as he wanders towards the kitchen.  
The air, cooler in there, floods his flushed face, and he leans against the cupboards, squeezing his eyes shut. Just once, he'd like to get a restful night's sleep. He sighs deeply, trying to calm the shake in his fingers, and then in an instant nearly slams his head against the wall in surprise as another figure emerges from the dark. They seems equally shocked, and flinch backwards. Jacob catches his breath as his eyes adjust to the shadows and he makes out the familiar face of Horace.  
"Jacob?" the boy asks softly, fruitlessly squinting his eyes.  
"Yeah." Jacob confirms, relaxing slightly. "Uh... why are you awake?" he asks after a second, instinctual worry in his voice.  
Horace shuffles his feet somewhat awkwardly.   
"I'm not tired." he says. "Why are you?"  
Jacob picks lamely at his fingernails.  
"Not tired either."   
"Nightmares too, then?"   
Jacob gives him a half smile.  
"Yeah. Guess so."   
Horace nods.  
"Annoying, aren't they." he grumbles, carefully taking a seat on one of the pulled out wooden chairs.  
"Yours- were they-" Jacob starts to say, but Horace cuts him off with a shake of his head.  
"No. I can tell when they mean something." he says quickly, fiddling with an empty cup on the table.  
Jacob often feels like he's balancing a pencil on his finger when he's talking to any of the kids. Two sides that require equal attention- one, an eleven year old boy, and the other a hundred year old man forced to live the same day over and over again his whole life. There was maturity and there wasn't, in a unique way that reminds him of a bug frozen in amber. The bug is not the same than it was when it was frozen, of course. Take it out and it's wings might rip or it could crumble to dust in your hands. Nonetheless, it looked identical, and although it was dead, bring it back to life and it would be identical. How could a child mature in a situation where nothing ever grew? But, then again, how could you stay the same after a century of life.   
Jacob realizes a bit late that he's thinking too much. He tends do that- get caught up in his head, in things that don't really matter, and as he shakes himself he sees Horace in front of him, an eleven year old boy who's just had a nightmare, and he feels bad for staring.  
"Wanna do something? Get your mind off it?"   
He stumbles over the words, but Horace looks up from his fixed stare, which is a win, although his stare is dubious.  
"It's almost 3 in the morning. What would we do?" he asks, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.  
Jacob is starkly reminded that Horace does not understand or approve of the future, and he is briefly grateful that he grew up in the generation of Wii-us and iPhones that he could sneak downstairs to play when his imagination kept him up too late.  
"Play a game or something. I don't know. It's better than sitting in the dark wallowing." he points out, hoping Horace knows he's making fun of himself.  
"I can wallow if I so please!" Horace huffs defensively, turning up his nose at Jacob, who suppresses an exhausted laugh.  
"'Course you can. But if you get bored of that, I'll be here." he shrugs.  
He's trying.   
It seems to work, because Horace's face softens, and he gives a shadow of a nod.  
The two of them sit and stand like that for a little bit. Jacob bites his fingernails in a nervous habit, trying to chase off the last of his unease, but it sticks like a pit in his stomach. Every whisper of wind outside sets his nerves off, his hair standing on end, and he can tell he's not alone in that feeling.  
"How do you deal with it?" Horace asks quietly after a prolonged silence.   
Jacob's heart twinges. _Lock myself in my basement._ Is what he thinks, but he doesn't say.  
"Aren't you used to this by now?" is what he asks instead, somewhat clumsily.  
Horace shrugs.  
"I guess. But it's strange, you know. Everything is so different, all the time." he explains vaguely, gesturing around with his hand.  
Jacob nods. He doesn't really get it, but he pretends like he does, and it sort of makes sense.  
"I guess I don't. Deal, that is. I wouldn't really take advice from me if I were you." he sighs.  
Horace looks at him strangely. So often, his expressions are indecipherable, Jacob has discovered.  
"I want to." is all he says.  
Jacob feels pinned, but he sees the trust in Horace's young face and he swallows. He's pretty sure he hasn't earned that level of trust, but it's nice. It's familial.  
"Um. Some people drink tea, I guess." he tries.  
Horace rolls his eyes.  
"I know that."  
Jacob holds up his hands defensively.  
"I told you, bad at advice."  
"Fine. We can play a game, I suppose." Horace gives in, quietly rising from his seat, and Jacob gives him a soft smile.   
"Stuff's in the basement. Follow me." he says, gesturing for Horace, and the two of them begin their intricate path to the back of the house, stepping over couches and blankets and sleeping bags.  
Jacob eyes the door to the basement with an uneasy feeling, bad memories sinking in his stomach, but Horace's footsteps usher him forward and he shoves it down. He doesn't want to live in the shadow of his worst memories forever, he decides.

Five minutes into explaining the rules of Monopoly, Horace gets exasperated with the game. He found it interesting at first, but the wonder fades quickly and he now peers skeptically at the little silver dog that marks his place as Jacob explains railroads.  
"And this is meant to be fun? Buying and selling property?" he mutters.  
Jacob leans backwards, mulling over the words.  
"I guess. It's more fun once you play it." he says.  
The box's thick layer of dust was a contradiction to that thought, though. Abe had been the only one who he'd ever played with.  
Nevertheless, Horace takes the dice and tosses them halfheartedly across the board. He rolls an 8, ending up on Vermont Avenue.   
"Are you buying?" Jacob asks.  
"At that price? Incredulous." Horace denounces.

The game never gets finished. An hour in, they're both too tired to keep caring, but neither is willing to make the suggestion that they go back to sleep, still jittery enough to prefer the company of a board game.  
"You should get some sleep." Jacob finally says, finding a loophole in the standoff.  
Horace doesn't disagree, but he makes no move to stand. He's quiet for a moment.  
"You're lucky, you know." he says.  
Jacob is caught off guard.  
"What's lucky?"   
Horace twirls his dog piece between his fingers.  
"You can see them."  
Jacob is sobered instantly. He thinks of their twisted faces, their empty eyes and hollow cheeks and torn skin and tongues.  
"I'm not sure lucky is the right word." he huffs.  
Horace shakes his head.  
"It is. You don't know what it's like, that they could be anywhere." he admits, and Jacob suddenly knows why he can't sleep.  
"I would tell you, you know. If there was one around. I'd never let it hurt any of you." he tries to reassure Horace, but he can't even convince himself that he has faith in his own abilities.  
Horace nods, staring firmly at the concrete beneath his crossed legs.  
"I know. But..." he trails off, uncharacteristic for him, and Jacob gets the unsaid message.  
"When... the first time I saw one, I thought they were everywhere. For months." Jacob tells him quietly, remembering the way every shadow could twist and turn into a mockery of a monster.  
Horace says nothing, but the silence is less oppressive. They're not alone in it, this time.  
There is no response from either of them for a while. The Monopoly board remains stagnant and forgotten, but they stare at it awkwardly until Jacob gathers his courage.  
"You need to sleep." he manages to remind Horace, clearing his throat to banish the uncomfortable words.  
Horace nods faintly, and rises to his feet. The two of them stretch, bones cracking from lack of movement, and they leave the cold basement air behind them, it's windowless safety locked behind a wooden door. However, when Horace turns to pad back up the stairs, he is followed by Jacob, who clutches a pile of blankets in his arms.  
"What are you doing?" Horace questions skeptically, and Jacob feels a little stupid.  
"I sleep better in my room." he lies, and he knows Horace doesn't believe him for a moment, but the young boy doesn't protest either.  
When he swings the bedroom door open, it feels cold and empty in there. Jacob's parents had removed the most painful photos, those that showed his smiling sixth grade face, or the three of them at his first birthday party, and had left the most meaningless things, like posters from bands he'd never really liked all that much and stray worksheets from classes he'd hated, stripping his room from a model of an average gloomy teenager to that of a dead kid. It's almost eerie, but he tries to ignore the decoration choices and focuses on Horace instead, who flops into the messy bed with a tired sigh.  
"I know I'm the guest and all, but this is your bed. I feel odd using it." he mutters, but makes no motion to move his exhausted limbs.  
"By all means, take it." Jacob says as he tosses a pillow onto the hardwood floor. "You'll probably appreciate it more anyway."   
He gives one last long stretch before tossing the blanket forward and settling in on the ground. He will admit, it's far more comfortable to be in the stifling room knowing Horace is right beside him.  
After a few minutes of quiet shuffling and some muted conversations, Horace yawns and turns over in bed, his face just barely visible from Jacob's position on the floor. His eyes are shut and he's draped across the mattress with his arms hugging the pillow, but not quite asleep enough that Jacob can't catch his next few words.  
"Thank you." he murmurs, before sinking his face into the covers and falling fast asleep once more.  
Jacob is still for a bit, unsure of how to feel, but he eventually lets a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth, and he relaxes under the thin blanket, letting Horace's steady breathing drag him into unconsciousness.   
At least for the day, they could be safe.


End file.
